Often, in art, a work of art is esteemed as great, not because it is technically, aesthetically, nor creatively, great, but merely because it represents a great break, or a great step forward, from what the art form offered before. What it does is not as important as what it symbolizes or represents, ideatively. Examples of this can be seen in the rather rote epopee of Homer and Virgil, the bloated religious didacticism of Dante or John Milton, the predictable comic convolutions of Charles Dickens, or some of the lesser works of Cubism, or any other school of art.
Oliver Stone’s latest film, W., oddly seems to invert that truism. It is a regression from not only Stone’s earlier, greater films, but from satire itself. It also represents a regression for Stone even as the film is, on the surface, more entertaining than his recent offerings. But, this is a man capable of greatness, and a greatness of Shakespearian levels.
This film’s failure, then, most likely is Stone’s unwitting admission that his slow descent into irrelevance and artistic anomy will be unabated. The same thing has occurred to other great American filmmakers like Woody Allen, Francis Ford Coppola, and Martin Scorsese (despite his recent ‘career’ Oscar for The Departed), but it makes it none the less sad and frustrating for his viewers. If only he had shown the nerve to try, this time out, one might have been able to forgive him his failure. But, Stone’s own uninspired direction and effort can only elicit a shrug from fans of his work. Like breeds like- a point Stone seems to have wanted this film to make, but….yawn.
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